


Midnight Madness/Tumblr Mini Fics

by coulsons-hawk (allyoop)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Bakery, Car Sex, Chefs, Coffee Shops, College, Cooking, Crack, Cute, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Don't Touch Lola, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Films, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Industry AU, M/M, Magic, Meet-Cute, Pheels, Princes & Princesses, Professors, Roommates, Sharing a Room, Students, Stylist AU, Suit Porn, Swearing, Tahiti is a Magical Place, Tumblr, Weddings, Western, Woobie, musician Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 9,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoop/pseuds/coulsons-hawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a certain hour, when I should be sleeping, I write things for Tumblr instead.<br/>This is a collection of mini-fics and one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bespoke & Spoken For (the Tailor AU)

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of different AUs here. Because I really really love AUs.  
> Most are Mature or above.

Clint had seen only a handful of truly beautiful things in his life and he could name them all off the top of his head, in order. But something walked in the door that made him drastically reevaluate his list. He couldn’t help himself. Under the guise of work, he studied the man who had entered. Strong shoulders balanced by a slim waist nicely accentuated by a peaked lapel in a slightly patterned contrast fabric. Average height but perfectly tailored pants that didn’t bunch or sag. The pleat in his pants was pressed and straight, and every detail was so well cared for that Clint might have been salivating. This was a man who knew suits and knew that he looked good in them.   

“Barton! We have a client. Measure him while I grab the fabric sample book.”

“With pleasure.” If Clint dropped his voice and added a wink, he wouldn’t deny it. He saw something he wanted and something he knew he could get.

He pulled the man in front of the mirror faster than necessary. He wanted him to watch as Clint unfurled the measuring tape and straightened it slowly across his shoulders, down his back, around his waist. He slid two hands under his arms, lifting them up and lingering, chest grazing his back. Clint measured wingspan and armscye, running careful hands across seams and muscles and enjoying this way beyond a professional capacity. He could feel the man watching. It wasn’t out of curiosity. Clint could feel something more heated emanating from an otherwise flawless poker face. He smirked at him in the mirror and leaned to whisper a command. “ _Turn_."

Clint was facing him now, eyes glancing up and down, surveying longer than necessary. He dropped slowly to his knees in front of him, glancing up under his lashes, playing every dirty trick he could think of. He lifted his hand, holding the end of the tape just south of his crotch, and let the other hand trace the inseam down, worshipping every tiny stich with his nails, never breaking eye contact. The man’s stony face was not perfect; his eyes and increased breath betrayed the fact that this game was working. Clint wanted to see how far he could push before the man would break entirely. The tape reached the floor and Clint glided back to standing, making sure to lean in closer as he stood. They were practically flush now, eyes locked, neither of them moving except for their chests rising and falling faster. He heard footsteps. The man looked away. Clint stepped back as his boss reappeared, and as the man deliberately turned to peruse the samples, Clint darted a hand out to drop a small note into the man’s pocket. _You look great in a suit, but I know you’d look better without it._ He had added his phone number and a smiley face. Cheesy, but it would work. He watched the man flip through pages of swatches and smiled. A fine ass in a finer pair of pants. He couldn’t wait to take them off.


	2. Don't Forsake Me Oh My Darlin' (Western AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Western AU!

Based off of [this](http://25.media.tumblr.com/a676f97c2a5ab669b3a3b191a0635ec4/tumblr_mhkoqvgL1i1rifaw9o1_400.jpg) photo.

 

Clint wasn’t sure how he ended up in a hole in the middle of the desert in a town no one had bothered to name. He struggled to pull himself up and cried out in pain. Wrist was broken. And probably a rib or two. He lay still, squinting against that awful sun. Running some mental calculations, he figured he had a couple hours to get out from his uncovered grave and find a ride to a doctor. If he didn’t make it out in time… well, the vultures or the coyotes would find him. Someone would have a full stomach tonight.  
___  
(ten hours earlier)  
  
There was trouble in town, but there was _always_ trouble in town. Clint stood on his perch on the jail’s roof, his sheriff’s badge glinting in the sunlight. Nat had woken him early in the morning, saying there was a rumble in the distance. Approaching riders, she said. Clint didn’t doubt her. When it came to getting information, Nat was ace. She’s never been wrong. So Clint took his usual vigil overlooking the dusty roads and he stood there until those clipclopping horses in the distance was silhouetted clearly against the horizon. Three riders, minimum, but at least three extra horses. Clint’s seen groups like this before. They sweep in, looking for a fight, and usually take some women and loot with them - hence the extra packhorses. The riders were still an hour out, but Clint still grew tense. His town may be nothing but dirt and bad decisions, but it was _his_ town, and he’d be damned if he let it down.

He stood, eyes like a hawk, following the movement of the riders. He barely blinked. As they rode under the rickety arch that spoke “w lc m ” in broken letters, Clint tilted his hat down, shading his face from the strangers. The leader of the group, clad in the best suit (miraculously dust free), sidled up to the jailhouse, watching Clint watching him. They stared at each other for a long while, neither one seeing each others’ eyes and neither one speaking.

Clint recognized a stalemate, and so he broke it, wanting the first word. “Howdy, stranger. What brings you to the middle of nowhere?”

“I could say the same to you.” the man called out. “Your name Barton?”

Clint leaned forward, glaring. “Why you got business with a man named Barton?”

“Are you or are you not Barton, the sheriff of this place?” Clint spied Nat on the adjacent building roof, crouched down, gun in hand. She caught his eye, waiting. Clint looked back to the man on the horse.

“You see my sheriff’s badge? That means something in a town like this.” Clint slid a casual hand down to his gun, eyes narrowed. “Now what d’ya need with me so bad you’d ride through hell’s desert to find me?”

The man on the horse took off his hat, showing an earnest face creased with the lines of hard work and the scars of past battles. “We are here,” he indicated the man in all black behind him and the woman with a neat cropped haircut. “on the behalf of an elite government division that requires your help.” Clint leaned back, reacting to ‘ _government’_. He hasn’t had the best run-ins with the government. What with the whole jailing misunderstanding and that bounty on his right arm.   
The man could tell he was losing Clint’s interest. “Have you ever heard of the Avengers?”

“No.”

“Good. That means we’ve been doing our job.”

Clint knew this was a trap. He was curious now and all he had to do was take the bait…

“Hold your horses, I’ll be down in a sec.”


	3. Little Red Threads - Model/Designer AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Model/Designer AU!

Inspired by a [certain face](http://coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/43554530847/little-red-threads-a-clint-coulson-model-designer-au)....

* * *

 

Phil dropped to his knees, pulling the pants down with him. He could hear the seams rip a little in his rush, and he cursed himself for the shoddy construction. One more detail he would have to fix before the show. He ran his hands slowly up his bare thighs, enjoying the texture of his smooth skin under his own callused fingers. He paused at the hem of the most remarkable pair of boxer briefs he has seen. He admired the intensity of the purple that shifted into blue-black as he moved: it was high-quality silk and the rational part of his brain almost spoke up, to ask where it had been purchased. Phil must have been staring too long, because he felt a hand cup his jaw and tilt it upwards. He met Clint’s eyes and the other side of his brain, the side clouded with lust and want, took over. In one swift movement, Clint’s boxers were around he ankles and his legs were nudged open for better access. Phil smiled. Every bit of filth and cum on this gorgeous suit was going to be worth it.

 

(one month prior)

 

Phil Coulson didn’t believe in luck; just hard work and patience.  But when he passed by the usual landmarks on his route to the studio, he had to backtrack to double-check what he had seen. Leaning against the brick wall, cigarette dangling from lips as he checked his phone, was the future face of Phil’s new line. He was perfect: clad in a well-worn leather jacket and black denim, hair mussed like he had just woken, and the air of a man confident enough in his looks that he doesn’t have to _try_ to be sexy. Phil was captivated. And he was sure the audience would be to. He crossed the street without a second thought to little things like deadlines or traffic, and approached the man, trying to match his confidence level.

“Sorry to interrupt, but-“ The man looked up, and Phil felt a shiver race down his back. He was gorgeous from far away, his silhouette stark and sculpted against the light brick. But up close, his face stole all the attention. Eyes grey and framed with dark lashes; a jawline that screamed masculinity; and that classic haughty expression of a model who knew what he was worth.  
“Yeah?”    
“Are you a model?”  
“If this is some kinda pick-up line-“  
“Let me be quick- I _know_ you’re a model, you have the look and the attitude. I also know you’re not booked right now, because otherwise you wouldn’t be standing outside of a model agency with what is clearly a lookbook in your bag.” The man frowned, looking somewhere between impressed and insulted. “I want to offer you a job. A _well paying_ job.” He perked up at that.  
“I’m in between shows right now. It can’t be anything long.”  
“A photoshoot. I promise you can be in and out and back to your shows in a day.” Phil put on his business face, trying to look as serious as possible. This had to work. He was too stubborn to leave without this man following behind. The man grinned, relaxing his body and sticking out a hand.  
“I’m Clint Barton. You may have heard of me.” Phil almost choked but managed to keep his face calm. He scolded himself for not keeping up with the dailies like he should have been. Clint had just been selected to open the Armani Prive show in Paris. Which, as WWD said, was a _pretty big deal_.

“I’m Phil Coulson.” He took Clint’s hand, giving it a sturdy shake. “You may have heard of me.” The flash of recognition in Clint’s eyes surprised Phil.

“My ex wore nothing but your jeans for months, swearing it made his ass look fantastic.”

“And did they?”

He shrugged. “Looked better on me than on him. I still have pair in my closet. They lasted a lot longer than he did.” Clint grinned and Phil felt his stomach squirm.  
“I’m flattered.” He paused, not sure how to proceed. “If you aren’t doing anything right now, I was heading to my studio…?”  
Clint tossed his cigarette to the sidewalk, giving it a stomp. “Right behind you.”  
 _That would be nice_ an irrational part of Phil’s brain thought _those hands on your hips; that gorgeous body against yours, cock grinding your ass._ Phil walked a little faster, needing the pace to keep his mind clear. Clint met his stride, those model legs proving useful. Phil glanced sideways, trying very hard not to think about those legs, and those thighs and that-  
He reached his building, punching in the key code and throwing the door open harder than necessary.

“Welcome.”  
Clint stepped into the lobby, giving Phil a smile over his shoulder.   
Phil tried to pretend that his insides didn’t twist at that.


	4. Who Wears the Apron in the Kitchen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt/question asked by the lovely jeremyruiner.

From [this](http://coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/41510160789/who-wears-the-apron-in-the-kitchen) question...

It depends on the day, really, who cooks in their household (Clint still reels at the phrase _their household_. What mystical beast did he suck off in order to get such wonderful favors in return?). During the week, disasters withholding, Clint throws together hotpots and soups and meaty things with lots of cheese (his childhood may have been rough, but the greasy food still tasted like home). Phil tended to get so bogged down in his paperwork and files and his usual “Mr. Stark please step down from the podium, your blood alcohol level is near fatal as are whatever words you are about to tell the reporters” that he would forget about dinner (and quiet often lunch as well).  Clint would cook messily sans apron and appear in Phil’s office with hot food before Phil even noticed he was hungry. It was always perfectly timed and perfectly cooked and always ended with perfect kisses.  
On the weekends Phil took over. Clint had mandated that he wouldn’t go into SHIELD more than necessary and Phil had took it to heart (he had also permanently added a certain archer into his heart, but everyone already knew that). Phil, being the reasonable adult, would cook something efficient, healthy, and delicious. Clint always stuck out his tongue at his asparagus and salmon, and his veggie lasagna, but there were never leftovers on those nights. Phil received the most perfect apron from Clint for Christmas and that was what he wore whilst he cooked, swaying to Etta James and the best of 50s crooners. 

The apron was simple. Classic red with only a little stitched phrase, hidden on the inside: _I’ve been told that you do more by 7am than I do in an entire day. But if I wake up at 6:59am and turn to you and trace the outline of your lips with mine, I will have done enough. Here’s to many more breakfasts in beds and sleepless nights with you. Love, Clint._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love getting questions that make me accidentally fic as an answer...


	5. Clint is the Prettiest Princess in All The Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly cracky.   
> Thanks to jeremyruiner again...

Based on [this](http://coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/post/41508912620/jeremy-ruiner-coulsons-hawk) fanart...

* * *

 

“But Daddy, why can’t I marry-“

“Clint, we have already made the royal decree. Royal heirs marry _royals_. And we’ve already banished the _problem_. Now suck it up.” King Tony swept past his adult son, too-long cape dragging on the floor. Queen Steve lagged behind; mouthing _Sorry your father is an idiot_ before dashing towards his husband, hoping to sway the King’s mind in Clint’s favor.

Clint pouted, wasting his famous puppydog eyes on the attendants still hovering in the room. A silent nudge on his shoulder let him know that his best friend had appeared. Red hair tucked almost entirely under a cap, Natasha (dressed as a man and appointed head knight of King Tony’s guard) gave Clint a small smile before pointing towards the back exit. “I found someone.”

Clint kept his face neutral, but he grew increasingly excited as he strode through the halls, back into the kitchens, and out into the garden, exchanging his glaringly royal cape with a plain brown one from Natasha. The lone figure in the garden had seemingly chosen the most perfect spot to stand: amidst a canopy of willow trees the setting sun danced across the pond, reflecting golden light onto the figure, highlighting a warm smile and sparkling eyes.   
  
“Clint.” The smile grew wider.  
  
“Phil!” Clint nearly knocked him over with the force of his embrace. He met Phil’s lips in a desperate kiss, every second they had been apart and every worry that had seeded was vanquished in the heat of their kiss. They only broke contact to breathe, and when they did, they breathed together.  
  
“Did you doubt me?” Phil whispered, lips still just touching Clint’s. “Did you think I wouldn’t return?”  
  
“ _Never._ ”  
  
Clint buried himself tighter into Phil’s chest and wrapped his cloak around both of them; a safe cocoon from whatever cold reality may hit them later. For now was the time of Princes and their lovers, of kisses and safe returns, and of that twilight hour where wishes are made and granted beneath the soft leaves of willow trees.


	6. Finding Cinderella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " Why am I still thinking about kissing Clint Barton? "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College AU, with a bit of musician!Clint and lots of Pheels.

“ _Um, hi?_ ” One second. “ _Yeah, hi. This is Clint and I have-_ ” Short laugh. “ _Wait, sorry. This is Clint Barton. You don’t know me, but I found your friend’s phone. And I-_ “ One second. “ _You’re the last number dialed, so I thought you’d be my best bet._ ” Three seconds. “ _Anyways, return the call if you know how to get Phil his phone back._ ” Shuffling sound. Dial tone.  
  
Phil pressed 4 to repeat the message. He had already timed each breath and fluctuation, but once more couldn’t hurt. This was perfectly normal, especially in his situation. He had left his phone, along with his dignity, at the coffee shop on west campus. And now _Clint Barton_ (Phil reveled at the new information) had left a message and he hit 4 again. “ _Um, hi?_ ”

“Phil.”

“ _You don’t know me, but-_ ”

“Phil, I’m serious.”

“- _how to get Phil his phone back_.”

A rough hand slapped over the phone, preventing Phil from hitting 4 again. “Do I need to remind you that this is my phone?” Nick gave him a hard glare.

“How does he know my name?”  
  
“Are you starting with this again? Phil, this comes from a place of love and friendship, but you are being fucking idiot right now. Stop thinking so much.”

“But that doesn’t explain-“  
  
Nick narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to call him or should I?”

“It’s your phone.”  
  
“It’s your crush.”  
  
Phil could feel his cheeks grow hot. “It’s not a-“

Nick just laughed. “I’m calling. You clearly wouldn’t be able to function when you hear his voice in real time.”

 

He was right. Phil felt spineless near Clint, which made less than zero sense to him. They were opposites. Clint was the class joke; the one who showed up late to class every day with a new outlandish excuse. The one who slept through lectures yet always knew the answer when called on. The one who seemed to come to the study groups solely for the snacks, stuffing his pockets with extras before he ducked out early.  Clint was the one that climbed a tree to fetch a cat and the one that drove a total stranger to the hospital when she got a bad news phone call during class.   
Clint was sarcastic and rude, sweet and kind. Phil didn’t understand him at all. Which, of course, meant that Phil couldn’t stop watching him. Analyzing. Thinking about that half-grin and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.  
  
Nick was right.  
  
But Phil would never admit it. Especially after the coffee shop incident. He was still surprised the only thing he left behind was his phone; he was so rattled. His midterm had almost killed him and Nick forced him out of wallowing in the dorm room, and towards the promise of sugar induced happiness. It was Thursday, which was open mic night at the coffee house. It was the usual college indie, nothing outstanding, but a lowkey background music for the shop. Just as Nick turned to him, to ask where he wanted to sit, a figure he knew well crossed the stage. He plopped on the piano bench, big smile and no introduction, and began to sing. The bones in Phil’s body seemed to shiver and his previously waning energy spiked. He was _good_. That blond boy with no sense of time and a joke about everything was a different man when on stage. The atmosphere in the room quieted, everyone wanting to listen. It was a cover of a current radio hit, but he had slowed it down and warped it into an object of beauty that spoke of emotions deeper than just catchy lyrics. Phil couldn’t move or drink or breathe or do anything but listen. He was wrapped in his song.

By the last chord, Phil’s fascination in unraveling the mystery that was Clint surged into a heated desire to know what made him sing with such raw emotion and how Phil could kiss that pain away.  
And that’s when Clint caught Phil’s eye in recognition, and stood to make his way towards him, and Phil panicked.  _Why was I thinking about kissing him? I don’t even know him. Why am I still thinking about this, he’s coming over here, why am I-_ and Phil handed Nick his full coffee, grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, and made a obvious dash to the door. His phone fell from his coat pocket, leaving a clue like Cinderella’s shoe.

And now here Phil was. Blushing over words on a recording, each syllable committed to memory. His best friend trying not to laugh. And _why am I still thinking about kissing Clint Barton?_


	7. Phil's Superpower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil is just as 'super' as the team he handles.

It began (as most things do) with his time in the Rangers. His first drill instructor was fond of middle-of-the-night wake ups, screaming in the faces of the newbies, get up get the uniform on and go go go.  So he had learned to take off whatever he’d worn to bed and throw that uniform on in less than seven seconds.  
  
He was able to get it down to four seconds after his first mission with SHIELD. There had been an unexpected attack on the base. It was a Sunday afternoon, everyone was in casual attire, and there had been no major incident in weeks.  The building suddenly rattled with the force of the crash and the acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air. Phil rushed to pull off his shirt and pull on at least the vest portion of his field suit. He knew the Kevlar blend could be the difference between life and death.  
He was right.

Most people hit a plateau after four seconds. Most people say that it’s physically impossible to learn to be faster than four seconds.   
Most people haven’t met Clint Barton.  
  
Phil had never thought he would meet a man that would push him to his physical limits. Even with years of training on how to hold a perfect poker face, Phil’s lips would still twitch and his cheeks warm when he thought about the type of middle-of-the-night wake ups of which Clint was so fond. Clint would appear from nowhere, like he usually does, his shirt already off and his pants rapidly coming undone. All it took was those dark eyes and bright smile and Phil was whipping his clothes off faster than he could think.

In the afterglow he’d look around the room, clothes strewn haphazardly with even his perfect tie knot loosened in the jumble. And he would think (and he would chuckle just loud enough for Clint to raise his eyebrow in confusion): _Keeping up with Clint Barton keeps me fitter than the Rangers and SHIELD combined._

And so the legend of Phil Coulson began.  
He has a superpower much like the reckless team he handles.  
He can strip his clothes in three seconds. 

But only one person has ever been a witness.

 

(inspired by [this](http://media.tumblr.com/2ded0f00e977788905a4e793590c430c/tumblr_inline_ml2czuMmRd1qz4rgp.gif))


	8. Something Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baking AU;   
> warnings for utter SACCHARINE language and ridiculous feels

_It began with a cookie._

 

Clint knew that if he told this story at their wedding (the resonance of that word made his breath hitch) he would have to find a way to make it manlier. To admit that his great love story started by bonding over a  _baked good_ was just as well as admitting that his favorite color was a purple that could be interpreted by the narrow-minded as a borderline  _pink_. Clint had a reputation to uphold; he was the founder of Tough Guy Sweets after all, and he didn’t rise to where he was by doing things with frills and bows.

He fiddled with the pencil in his hand seeing as it was a better use of time than staring at the blank sheet of paper. His fiancé would kill him if his speech sucked. He would still marry Clint, but then he would immediately kill him. He sighed and resolved to embellish the story a little. No one at the party would know the difference, since the only people who knew the full story were himself and a man whose name starts with  _P._

_«Four months prior»_

Clint was not a man who ever felt claustrophobic. He was a champion in hide and seek and his particular childhood circumstances had honed this skill until he could stay cramped in a closet for hours if need be. But here he was, later in his twenties than he’d like to admit, shopping basket dangerously full, and enclosed in a crowd dense enough that he felt a knot of panic begin to form. It wasn’t often that Big Marcus’s Supplies had a sale, but as another elbow jammed ‘accidentally’ into his ribcage when he reached for the last bag of cake flour, Clint couldn’t help but think that this crowd was not all here for baking. He pushed through, fed up and ignoring any grunts of pain, and reached the chocolate aisle hoping to get the last item on his list. Clint was trying a new fusion recipe for his shop inspired by his “research” vacation to Ohio. He already had the peanut butter and sugar and all he needed was the chocolate. There was a particular brand that Clint had found to taste the best in saltier recipes and he would accept no substitutes. It was a local small-batch produced chocolate that was usually in stock, but of course this leeching mob seemed to have sucked all the brands of baking chocolate off the shelf. Clint dug to the back, sliding his hands into each box hoping to find one package left. He only felt air and he couldn’t help but swear under his breath.   
“ _Stupid fucking crowd of fucking amateurs. Taking all the supplies; bet they don’t even know what to do with the fucking ingredients. Stupid sale, stupid store. All I fucking need is one fucking package of-_ “ he felt a surge in the crowd and he got pushed into the shelf, arm painfully stuck between two shelves of the empty boxes. “Ow! What the fuck?“ Clint felt the crowd thin behind him and pulled his arm out, rubbing the sore part. “Yeah you better back off, you bunch of-”.

A man walked up to him, lips half up in a bemused smile. Clint was only vaguely aware of faces in the crowd twisting to follow the man’s path to the chocolate shelf. He had tunnel vision on the approaching man, an instantly recognizable face to any aspiring baker in Chicago (or anywhere for that matter). 

Phil Coulson was something of a secret superstar. He wasn’t one of those flashy chefs with a television show and his face plastered on everything from books to frying pans. Coulson was the man who made most of those chefs want to keep learning and keep improving because he was on a level that most people didn’t know was humanly possible. He called himself a baker, but he was so much more. Coulson began as something humble (Clint couldn’t remember for sure. Dishwasher in a smalltown diner or something equally quaint) but quickly shot up the ranks in the restaurant world until he was head chef at Cheese&Co, which was arguably the best American fusion restaurant in the Midwest.  And then, just as quickly, Cheese&Co disappeared, buried under red tape and litigation that was more than likely fabricated by rival restaurants. Coulson didn’t seem to mind, if anything, his sudden reappearance in the baking realm showed him as smiling, almost thankful for the loss of his restaurant. The grand opening of Nœud showed record numbers for any bakery in the last decade. And the numbers just kept growing. It may have had something to do with the sheer artistry and skill Coulson brought to his confections, but Clint wondered if that half-smile and jawline had anything to do with the mile long queue rumored to appear every morning outside Nœud.

And here he was: Phil Coulson in the flesh, shoulder to shoulder with a stunned Clint Barton, reaching up to the top shelf digging for the same brand that Clint had just searched for.  
“You’re not gonna find any-” Coulson’s hand had found the last package of Shokolada brand chocolate. Clint couldn’t help but let out a frustrated groan.

“What’s your name?”

“Clint Barton, sir.”

 “Of Tough Guy Sweets?” Clint nodded, a bit wary. “I’ve heard great reviews, but I haven’t had a chance to try it yet. What are you planning?” Phil gestured at Clint’s basket.

“I was gonna make buckeyes, but make them less bonbon and more cake-y. A little something new for the fall menu.”

“Without chocolate?”  
  
Clint hesitated. “Well you kind of-“

Phil laughed. “I did, didn’t I? Here,” he held out the chocolate, smile in his eyes. “You need it more than me.”

Clint took the hard-earned chocolate, an easy grin lighting his face. “Thanks.”   
  
“I’ll see you soon, then.”

Clint was taken aback. “What?”

“You can have the chocolate. In return I want to try your buckeyes when they’re ready. Do you have a cellphone?” Clint set his basket at his feet, checking his pockets until he found it. Phil took the phone from him and typed a few rapid strokes. “I took the liberty of giving you my number. Call me when you’re ready.”

He walked away, leaving Clint in a wake of confusion. Phil paused at the end of the aisle.

“I’ve heard you’re good at what you do. ‘Worlds best’ they say.  _Prove it_.” And with that, Phil turned the corner. The crowd, which Clint had forgotten about, moved to fill the gap that Phil left.

Clint would like to pretend that he shrugged off the encounter and played it cool. That he didn’t immediately check his phone and memorize the number. That he didn’t save that particular chocolate wrapper in the secret scrapbook he kept between his mattresses. But Clint, much like the very store he opened, was a hell of a lot sweeter on the inside that he appeared.

Two weeks later he flipped through his contacts, and scrolled to the bottom to find the number he sought.

“ _Calling: You Owe Me Something Sweet”_  his phone chimed.


	9. In the City of Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Industry / Stylist AU. Prompted on tumblr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to tumblr in late August. (whoops!)

Like most people living in the ‘city of angels’, Clint moved there too young, too broke, and much too soon. He came with a backpack full of hopes and dreams and only one extra pair of socks.

It’s not like he had much of a choice. He needed  _out_  and he needed it  _as soon as possible_. Chasing a faraway dream sounded better than being chased by his past, so Clint drove long and fast and was in Los Angeles by the week’s end.

So of course, Clint found himself living out of his car because he was severely lacking in a little thing called  _a job_. He was a kid in most employers’ eyes and one without any solid previous experience.  _Fuck that_ he thought,  _this is LA and I’m feeling lucky_. He wasn’t usually one to believe in luck, but after one more gut-turning gas station burrito he was ready to try this celebrity crapshoot.

***

“You’re here to apply as a personal stylist.  _You_?” The receptionist had given him the longest, coldest stare as Clint had approached her desk. He had spotted an ad on craigslist and decided any job was better than none. The receptionist gave him another disbelieving once-over. “Do you have previous experience?”

“Ah, yes. I was a PA for Gwenyth on a couple films after I graduated from Chapman. While I was still in school I had a job behind the counter at Neiman’s and so I know my way around everything pretty well.” Clint may not have many skills, but he was pretty proud of his smooth lying.

“Hmm,” the receptionist seemed to hesitate and make a few taps on her keyboard. “You’re lucky that no one else has applied yet. Ms. Rushman needs a stylist right away since her last one has unfortunately…left. She has an event tonight, black and white ball. Can you handle that?”

“Yup, of course, yes I can.” Clint shifted uncomfortably under her scrutinizing gaze. This might not have been that good of an idea after all…

“Okay. Ms. Rushman will be here in approximately five minutes. Get her sizes, call your people, and make her fabulous.”

“So, um, this Ms. Rushman,” he was in too deep already, he sensed. “Is there anything I should know? Like, personality wise or anything she really dislikes or-”

“I dislike when people are tardy, when my hair is styled straight, and I particularly dislike when someone dresses me in something that clashes with my hair color.”

Clint’s jaw dropped a bit. He really couldn’t help it and no one could possibly blame him. Ms. Rushman was almost surreally beautiful. Her curly red hair matched her lipstick and her eyes flashed as she slipped off those ubiquitous starlet sunglasses. Her clothes were plain, but even Clint’s untrained eye could tell they weren’t something you could find in your local Walmart. She didn’t ooze money or even power, but there was a distinct edge of  _danger_  that echoed in the room like her stilettos on the tile. Clint simultaneously wanted to be her friend and to flee the other way. Her outstretched hand blocked his way out.

“I’m Natalie but please call me Nat. And you are?”   
  
“Clint Barton, stylist extraordinaire.” He grinned wide, the lies coming easily.  
  
“Of course you are.” She winked and Clint felt transparent. “I have a feeling we’ll get along quite well.”

Clint could have ran that day, but he made a different call.

And with it he gained a best friend, a big break in this city of angels, and a boyfriend he really hoped to call  _husband._

But those were stories for later.

Today Clint was frantically googling ‘ _what to wear to black and white ball’_ and figuring out just who was this Rushman chick and how the hell did she catch him in lies that most people never detect…


	10. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moving in together can sometimes be a bit...rough

It began with a coffee cup.

 

And it wasn’t Clint’s (he usually drinks straight from the pot). It was black, sleek, and had an optional cover one could attach for travel convenience.  
It was Phil’s.  
And it was now on the floor in a pathetic mess of shards that will never fit again.

It was one hundred percent no-way-nuh-uh Clint’s fault and he will defend himself to the grave on this. Phil’s coffee cup had no business resting so precariously near the edge of the nightstand that was on _Clint’s_ side of the room. They agreed when they moved in together; sharing a room and sharing a bed was more than fine (the constantly laundered sheets were proof). But they needed separate closets and separate drawers. Phil believed in organizing his clothes so he could clearly see what he owned, and Clint was more laissez-faire; believing the clothes on the floor had just as much of a chance to be worn as the clothes on hangers. So the lone black cup struggling for space on a nightstand already crowded with books, papers, and various ephemera, well, it was just asking for trouble.

Clint wasn’t a heartless bastard who felt no pain for the forever ruined mug, but he was horribly stubborn. He hadn’t even _been in the room_ when the mug fell. It was _gravity_.

“You’re blaming gravity”. It wasn’t a question. Phil raised one eyebrow, but that was the only movement on his face.  
  
“I’m telling you, I wasn’t even there. I heard the crash from the kitchen and I ran in and _boom_ broken mug everywhere.”  
  
“Clint, if you’re afraid I’m going to be angry because you-”  
  
“Seriously Phil, it wasn’t me. It’s more your fault than mine if you think about-”  
  
“ _What._ ”  
  
“It was on my side and why was it on my side anyways? You know I’m messier and I’m surprised you even found room on my table for it. So if anything it’s totally your fault because -”  
  
“If I recall correctly,” Phil’s arms were crossed and both his eyebrows raised. Clint was scrambling to figure out where he turned so wrong. “I was not the one who was desperate, _begging_ even, for some early morning sex even though I was already half dressed for work and holding my mug of coffee.”  
  
 _So that’s how it got there._ He felt really stupid.  
  
“I think I’d like to amend my previous statement.”   
  
Phil barked out a laugh: something half way between a sigh and a chuckle. “It’s fine. My memory tells me that was some pretty damn good sex, so if the cost for that is a broken mug, well I’m happy to break a few more.”  
  
Clint was absolutely not blushing because real men don’t blush and he was definitely not feeling his cheeks warming at the recollection of that particularly _rousing_ morning. “Yeah, well, I still shouldn’t have made it a Big Deal.”  
  
“It’s not. It wasn’t.” Phil reached out, rubbing at Clint’s shoulder. “It’s been a long week for us all. I’m surprised Tony hasn’t fireworked a few more suits just to blow off some steam.” Just this week SHIELD was hit by the inevitable betrayal of a team of double (or triple) agents they were gleaning information from, the Itty Bitty Robot invasion of upper Manhattan, and an east coast poisoning of the water supply because of some villain’s latest malarkey. Clint _was_ surprised that no one else on the team had thrown in a white flag and declared it vacation time. His ends were frayed and he was sure Phil was stretched thin as well.

“I’m sorry.” He gave Phil his best puppy eyes, trying to milk the opportunity. Phil pulled him into a sweet kiss ( _success!_ ) and Clint ran his hands up his boyfriend’s back, pushing him closer.   
  
Phil leaned a millimeter back, his lips still soft on Clint’s own. “Me too.”  
  
Clint tugged him back into the kiss, hoping the memory of that morning was still fresh enough in their minds for a round two.  
  
“But-,“ Clint groaned as Phil untangled their limbs. “I need to buy a new mug now.”  
  
“No, Phil. I’ll buy it for you. Anything you want. It was kind of my fault anyways.”  
  
“Oh? Really?” _Shit_. Clint recognized that gleam in his eye. “Because there’s this glow-in-the-dark limited edition Captain America mug that I’ve had on my wish-list for a while but I didn’t need another mug. That is, until now.”

 _Well_ , Clint thought, _at least I know that one can’t be misplaced in the dark_.


	11. The Real Magic of Tahiti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tahiti is a magical place.

They had a code, as most agents do.

They used to talk in Morse, with flashlights and mirrors that flashed in the night. They used to talk in numbers and corresponding books. But all the words they used to say, across distances and under shadows, have dropped away leaving silence in their wake. 

They couldn’t talk and wouldn’t talk. The pain was too fresh and the surprise too real and the distance was something even a jet couldn’t fix. Clint wasn’t allowed to visit the island anyways. But usually he would still try.

He wasn’t scared of breaking rules or fighting the inevitable guards. He was afraid of what broken man he would find; of whose eyes he would see when they opened. Would they be the ones so familiar, the ones he still saw when he dreamed? Or would they be the cold blue, the ice that’s left when all warmth has drained out, the dark knife that still haunts the edges of his memory? 

And then he woke and Clint didn’t get the news because his hands were busy and his feet were running and the world needed him in that moment more than the quiet man on the bed.

Nothing changed when he was told; his shoulders were still tight and his stomach still clenched with a dread he didn’t know how to speak. He knew (and he was gently ordered) that he had to visit. That he should visit. He needed to touch the scar to see that it healed and to check those eyes for the ones he remembered. He needed to lay his head on Phil’s chest and retrain his heart to beat with another’s.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to be sure. 

He wrote what his voice couldn’t say aloud and sent it adrift on memories, hoping it’d reach the right hands at the right time. And that his Phil would remember how they used to talk.

The bottle reached Tahiti still safe in its dusty purple glass.  Phil was thinking with his feet, pacing the beach and working out the kinks in his legs from their weeks of underuse. The glass filled with light from the sunset and the paper inside glowed with the mighty purpose it seemed to know it had. He swooped it up, fished out the note, and he smiled. He looked up and behind him, into the densest part of the garden on the cliff and he smiled bigger and brighter. He was a beacon lighting up, signaling that it was safe to come out. His face was like the mirror with which they used to talk. Phil tossed the note back into the water and turned back to the garden, beginning his climb back to his temporary home. His body felt lighter, now knowing what surely waited at his door.

 

Now they talk in slow smiles, soft fingertips, and long quiet looks. They talk in words only a heart can hear, in a language only they know.

 

Tahiti is a magical place, but the magic had to come.  When Phil opened his door and saw Clint napping on his bed, he knew the real healing had become. His deepest scar could now begin to heal with each breathy laugh and sideways kiss. With each finger resting against his own. With the knowledge that his last piece had returned home.


	12. a little less conversation (a little more kissing please)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coffeshop / college / professor-student AU ??

His stomach was talking louder than his common sense. If he hadn’t been so hungry, especially after a grueling day of doing odd fix-it jobs and walking unruly dogs for neighbors, Clint would have probably paid more attention to where his nose was leading him. But unfortunately, even for all his sharp-eyed skills, he didn’t realize where was standing until he was already towards the front of the line.

There was the local Starbucks, well known for it’s exorbitant prices, and there was the hip corner café where the youthful clientele didn’t blink at high prices as they paid with a swipe of their iPhone. And then there was Cezve: half-café half-restaurant and entirely out of Clint’s price range. In hindsight, the copper pastry case full of dacquoise and şekerpare, and the well-suited customers sipping their kahve over copies of The Wall Street Journal should have been a huge punch-in-the-gut clue. His stomach, that rebel, made his mouth order a cheese drizzled something and the smallest cup of coffee and his fear grew higher with each step closer to the cash register. Clint had been in worse situations; he had literally been stuck between an angry tiger and a ring of fire with nothing but bare hands and a sprained ankle. He was great at improvisation. But conjuring money when he had none was a trick he had yet to master. 

He was almost to the front and he could see his coffee being poured. He saw no way out except really really undesirable ones. And then he saw the sign: Kiss & Tell for Free Food! Upon reading the fine print, Clint could see a miniscule chance of escape with his food still in hand. Valentine’s Special: Couples Get 2nd Order Free with a Kiss. He looked at his options; the man behind him was pushing sixty and had the unmistakable air of someone who says “back in my day” and “the reckless youth of today” quite often and with great frowns. The man in front of him had a suit that was tailored to perfection, hints of premature silver in his temples, and carried himself in way that seemed in contrast to the obvious strength in his build. He smiled at the cashier, and Clint knew his choice was made.

“Hey, sugarbunch.” He slid an arm around the man’s waist, praying that this guy wasn’t a black belt with a boundary problem. He leaned in and whispered, trying to keep it casual for any prying eyes. “C’mon man, do me a favor. I’m a couple dollars short but with a kiss I can get it free. You don’t pay for anything but your own order, and after a brief moment of embarrassment we can pretend this never happened.” He gave the man, who was looking more amused than surprised, his biggest most pleading puppy-dog eyes. “Help a stranger out?”

Clint got his answer in a firm hand on his neck that pulled him closer. As far as kisses go, it wasn’t awful. More chaste and sweet than Clint usually liked, but it was warm and he couldn’t help but pull away smiling.

“I believe his order is free.” The man gestured to the sign and the cashier, slightly flabbergasted, rang Clint up with a beautiful $0.00. He practically skipped towards the door, but a hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Wait for me, honey.” The man dropped a large bill into the tip jar and led Clint out, hand in hand. They crossed through the door and Clint made to drop his hand, but the stranger held it tight. “Wait until we’re away from the line of sight.” 

He had a sinking feeling that out of all the possibilities to escape paying his bill, he had inadvertently chosen the worst. Clint couldn’t wrap his head around why this guy wasn’t ditching him immediately. Maybe he was after something more. He braced himself to run if he needed.

“This is good.” They were at the corner, a safe distance from the sparkling windows of Cezve. “You alright?”

Clint eyed him, trying to figure him out and failing. “Yeah, thanks man. That was a big help.”

“No problem. You looked like you were a bit too hungry to think straight.” He chuckled and stuck out the hand that had once held Clint’s. “My name is Phil Coulson.” 

“Clint Barton.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to kiss you, too. I mean meet.” He groaned inwardly, wishing he had a better filter.

“Yes it was, wasn’t it?” Phil smiled and Clint felt a little less silly. Clearly he wasn’t alone in enjoying that kiss. Phil reached into his pocket. “Let me give you my number.”

“What? Why?”

“You asked for a kiss from me. I’d like to ask you to dinner. That okay?”

He tried to wipe the surprise off his face. Clint had been so busy lately, not by choice but by need, working multiple jobs just to have enough for rent and bills. He hadn’t had a proper date since the one month he was in college before life got shitty and he crashed and burned. He glanced at the card that he was just handed. 

“Vice Chancellor of Student Affairs at Clypeum College? Never heard of it.”

“It’s a small liberal arts college. Not that far from here, actually.”

“Huh. Well, uh…” He felt remarkable out of place next to this clearly accomplished, impeccably dressed man. Clint wasn’t bad looking, if he said so himself, and he was wearing his best jeans today. But he wasn’t a walking Brooks Brothers ad. 

“My number is on the back. I’d really love to take you to dinner. Call me when you’re free, Clint?”

“Yes.” He grinned despite himself, feeling something warming in his chest even with all his trepidation. “Yes. I will.” 

Phil shook his hand again, lingering seconds more than was necessary and turned the corner with one last smile to Clint. He stuffed the hard-earned pastry in his mouth, keeping his thoughts occupied with the food rather than the man who just left. It was still relatively early in the evening and he had all night to think about ‘when he was free’. He wondered, as he walked back to his shoebox-sized apartment, if calling tonight to set up a date for tomorrow would be too soon. His common sense told him that it was overeager and smelled like desperation. But his stomach, that traitor, took the gamble hoping that Phil’s clearly good taste in cafés would carry over to dinner.

Clint could never resist free food.  
Or a good kisser.


	13. ode to Lola

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for....years.... So sorry! Here's this cute thing now :)

There was something about the cherry red color that was a siren song for Clint. When he saw that red he thought of popsicle lips and red wine on white shirts, of neon alleys and first time fumbles. That flash of red would send goosebumps along Clint’s arms as he was reminded of how many missions ended in a ‘stress-relief’ session with his handler that left the windows foggy and the interior a bit messier than before.

Lola was Phil’s baby. It was a classic tale of a man who loved his car, and Clint always chuckled at how stereotypical Phil acted with Lola. All the open affection and petnames were reserved for the car, not the boyfriend. Clint wasn’t jealous; Phil always found a way to remind Clint (with a hot tongue and hungry hands) exactly who the real lover in this trio was. Lola may be a sexy young thing, but Clint was sure Lola couldn’t make Phil forget his own name the way Clint could with just his mouth in the right places.

When Phil was declared killed in action, and the dust in New York had finally settled, Clint dragged himself to his shitty apartment to grieve away from the rest of his team. His plans were interrupted by a real shock: a shiny red car was parked in front of the apartment complex. Clint elbowed through the admiring crowd, aiming for the driver’s side, eyes still too watery to see clearly. He found the handle and the door opened easily. It smelled like Phil, overwhelmingly so. Clint intimately recognized the scent. Sweat from the job, laundry starch from the perfect suits, gunpowder, and a whiff of the fancy aftershave Clint had gotten him for their last anniversary. Another steadying breath and Clint was surrounded by _Lola_. She smelled like Phil, warm leather, and Clint. She smelled like the last road trip they took; of drive-in popcorn, stale alcohol, and backseat quickies while the credits rolled. It was too much almost, making his legs weak despite sitting, but he needed it. He craved the pure reminder of everything that had been, every _Phil &Clint_ moment, so he could solidify those memories in stone. Then he could begin to repair what remained of his heart and start to think in terms of present day ‘alone’ and ‘solo’. For that is how Barton would be now: a free agent without a handler. 

He didn’t want to be free.

Clint half-collapsed against the steering wheel, still aware of the admiring crowd and wanting to shield his pain from whatever camera phones were watching. He jumped back up in the seat when his hand brushed the keys that were resting in the ignition. There was a key fob that wasn’t there before. It was plain clear plastic, with the original car dealer’s information from where the car had been purchased. Clint smiled, heart racing, and he started the car. He gave one warning honk before roaring through the crowd, only pausing once to let a slow-moving pedestrian get out of the way. He had recognized the address on the keys. But it was not a dealership to which he was speeding; he knew that this car was _built_ , not purchased. The address was a code; a Phil&Clint moment that he was sure no one else would know. He drove as fast as he could without risking injury to Lola. He owed a lot to this car and to its owner. Soon ( _he hoped, prayed, wished_ ) they would be reunited.

* * *

“What took you so long?” It was Phil, he was sure.

Clint had waited in the familiar wooded driveway until a shadowy figure had approached. He wasn’t sure at first, and his whole body was tensed for a fight. But the voice was unmistakable. He flung open the car door and rushed to pull back the hood of Phil’s jacket. He was greeted with that familiar half-smile, and weary but happy eyes. Clint let his lips and hands convey everything he was feeling since any words had escaped him. They stumbled backwards, bumping into the car with a thump.

“Don’t touch Lola. Don’t scratch her.” Phil mumbled against Clint’s lips.

Clint chuckled, reaching behind him for the door handle. “We’re going to do a lot more that _touch_.” They tumbled into the backseat, all tangled limbs and new bruises. Phil propped himself up and stared down at Clint, a look of fondness and relief crossing his face.

“Just like old times?” Phil said.

Clint pulled Phil down, hungrily meeting his lips. His answer was lost amongst the friction, the heat, and the foggy windows. From the way Clint moaned beneath him, Phil knew his response was a hearty agreement.

 


	14. the hawk problem

((inspired by [this artwork](http://haforcere.tumblr.com/post/75802746033/this-ridiculous-thing-for-you-guys-who-write-fic)))

* * *

The last thing Clint remembered being hit with the fire.

He’s burned himself before; you don’t get very far in a circus with fire-eaters and flaming ring jumps without getting a little singed yourself. But this wasn’t a fire he had ever felt before. Gone was the smell of burning wood and the orange-red flames; the fire was burning through his bones, engulfing him from the inside out. He feared to open his mouth for it felt that he could only breathe acrid smoke. Clint grabbed at his vest, trying to unzip his uniform with fingers that barely moved. The fire was collapsing his ribs inward and he doubled over from the pain. He felt like he was splitting in two.

Suddenly, his vision went white and his mind was screaming; this was familiar, too familiar. He tried to fight it, refused to let the blue ice take his sight again, but his fears were for naught. Loki didn’t want to torture Clint’s mind this time; he wanted his body to _suffer_.

As quickly as the shot had first hit, all of the pain dissipated. He was left feeling empty and broken, his body a useless clump on the ground. Clint forced his eyes open and almost had to close them again. His vision was overwhelmed with a sharpness he didn’t use to have and colors he never used to see. He tried to stand, tried to push himself off the ground, but he collapsed with a loud cry. Gone were his arms, his legs, his skin…

He was feathers, wings, talons and beak. Clint was a hawk. He cried again, the fear surging in his muscles and lifting his wings. He pushed up and felt the absence of the ground from the gust of cold air below him. Clint was flying, but he wanted nothing but to return to the ground.


	15. a dirty mouth

He’s half asleep on Phil’s couch after what has to be one of his top five -no, top THREE- Worst Days Ever. He can feel his eyelids drooping in rhythm to the sound of Ella Fitzgerald in the kitchen when all of a sudden the music cuts out, there’s a concerning metallic _crash!_ , and a responding string of very filthy words.

“Fucking fuckshit! Fuckity _crapfuck_.”

Clint dragged himself into the kitchen. “…Phil?”

His future husband was on the floor covered in flour, mixer cord twisted around his ankle, and a very sour look on his face.

“Do I even want to ask?”

Phil half-heartedly narrowed his eyes at him. “I was making pineapple scones to surprise you and the mixer just fell.”

“And Phil, _honey_ , tell me how the mixer fell of its own accord.” Clint’s tone was playful. It wasn’t often Phil was caught in embarrassing situations.

“I may or may not have dancing along to Ella. And, uh, got carried away.”

Clint kneeled down, happily getting flour on his jeans, and reached to brush the white powder of Phil’s face. “You should swear more often.”

“Mmm? And _pray tell_ , why is that?"

"Don’t mock me, Phil.” He kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s really hot, okay?”

“How hot is it, Clint? Is it _fucking_ hot?” Phil tugged at Clint’s shirt, totally playing along now.

“Oh it’s fucking something alright.” He closed the distance between them, pulling Phil into a kiss.

Phil pushed him back. “If we’re fucking, let's not do it in a pile of flour.”

Clint sat up. “Yes. Bedrooms. That’s what bedrooms are for. We have a bedroom.”

They left a trail of powdered white footprints and discarded clothes on their way to the bed, Phil whispering swear words into Clint’s ear as they went. Clint had to admit; this was the fastest turnaround from a Top Three Worst Day to a Top Two Best Day ever. But he was saving the number one Best spot for June, when they have their wedding. And knowing life, something will blow up in New York in the morning but it’ll turn around from a Worst to a Best Day the second he sees Phil at the alter.

**Author's Note:**

> This will constantly be updated...


End file.
